


Sherlock: Red On White

by IBegToDreamAndDiffer



Series: Sherlock: Colours [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-23
Updated: 2012-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-30 01:00:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/326028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IBegToDreamAndDiffer/pseuds/IBegToDreamAndDiffer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The cool steel of the razor blade sent shivers up Sherlock’s arm</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock: Red On White

**Author's Note:**

> Ownership: Original characters are owned by Arthur Conan Doyle, these versions are owned by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I just get to play.
> 
> Warning: This first story contains self-harm (cutting) and it is graphically written. If this upsets you in any way, please don't read this story.

The sound of water hitting tiles was the only thing, apart from his heavy breathing, that penetrated Sherlock’s ears. He was sitting in the bathroom under the pretence of having a shower. He’d have one after, of course. He’d need to wash away the blood.

Ah, the blood. That red hot liquid that made Sherlock feel so alive, so... not bored. He leaned against the wall, the tiles beneath his trousers cold. He’d rolled up his sleeves and now pale flesh was showing, blue veins large and attention seeking.

His skin was pockmarked with burns, cuts, and track marks scared into his skin from a hundred injections. But it was the cutting that scarred him the most; the thin white lines that stood up on his pale skin.

Sherlock always tried not to cut too hard but he failed miserably every time. The first few cuts would be soft and shallow. Little balls of blood would well up and stay on his skin. But as the feeling spread through him, the feeling of control and power, anger and fear, lust and pain, Sherlock cut deeper and deeper.

He didn’t want to die; this wasn’t about dying. It was about feeling the pain, the shiver as blood dripped from his arm. It was about stopping his brain from dying. Boredom was always alleviated when Sherlock cut; his massive intelligence focused on the pain briefly and allowed Sherlock to just _be._

So there were scars all over his arm, both, because Sherlock had to switch arms when one became infected, or when there were too many cuts. His pale forearms were horribly scarred and forced Sherlock to wear long sleeves. He couldn’t stand the staring from people, from strangers. That look that said; how disturbed are you that you’d do _that_? And then there were the looks from people who knew you, mostly Mycroft’s look of; Why, brother? Why would you do this to yourself?

Nobody understood the craving Sherlock had. He couldn’t stand it, it made his skin itch. The craving to stop being bored was overpowering. It pushed away Sherlock’s rational mind (a thirty-three year-old man should _not_ be cutting himself). But rational didn’t matter against craving. That’s why Sherlock had done drugs, why he chased after criminals, why he snuck the occasional cigarette, and why, now, he was sitting in the bathroom with a blood-crusted razor blade.

The thick red liquid ran trails across his arm. Only a few cuts at the moment but Sherlock pressed the cold razor to his arm and shivered slightly as he drew the blade across. It hurt, not too much, not too little. It was the perfect blend of pain and slicing that made Sherlock shudder in bliss.

This was what drove the boredom away now that drugs weren’t an option. Mycroft, and Lestrade, had seen to it that cocaine couldn’t push away Sherlock’s boredom. So now he did this; his last crutch.

He sighed in sheer joy and leaned his head back against the wall. The tingling pain was lovely, it drove away all other thoughts. He could feel the blood slipping down his arms to fall on the tiles, or his trousers. It added to the joy; added to the pleasure Sherlock was feeling.

Sherlock sliced again and felt the blade dig in deeply. Oh, that one would leave a scar. Blood quickly dripped down his skin and Sherlock watched it; the wound deep and gaping, staring at Sherlock as he grinned.

The fine hairs on his arms were crusted with blood. He watched as it began to dry while fresh waves paved over it. Sherlock ran a finger along his arm, enjoying the wet feel beneath the pad of his finger. The liquid spread across his arm and little drops played off to form puddles.

Sherlock smiled. He liked blood; liked the look, the smell, the feel. All his own, of course. Other people’s blood ruined the effect; it took away from his perfect little moments sitting in the bathroom. Other blood was wrong. It ruined everything.

One last cut and Sherlock pushed deep, purposely adding another scar near the crook of his elbow. He moaned softly as his arm flared up in pain. A gush of blood leaked across his pale white skin and he gasped slightly.

Too deep. Far too deep.

Sherlock dropped the razor blade and gripped his arm tightly, squeezing to cut off the flow of blood. Not deep enough to kill, but deep enough to render him unconscious if he didn’t stop it.

A few minutes, or maybe an hour, and Sherlock lifted his hand. The bleeding was slow, now, his hand covered in the deep red liquid. Sherlock watched as it dripped from his fingers, staining his trousers.

Sliding across the floor, Sherlock leaned into the shower and stuck his arm under the now cold water. It gushed along his skin, his clothes, his hair, and Sherlock groaned slightly as it stung at his wounded arm.

The water washed away most of the blood, leaving ugly red welts that had once been smooth, clean and bloody cuts. Sherlock didn’t like the welts; they were ugly and itchy and didn’t help his boredom. But they’d heal in three, four weeks, and Sherlock would cut again, using his other arm while this one healed.

He reached out with a bloody hand to wash away the rest of the blood. Most of the cuts had closed up but a few, including the one near the crook of his elbow, were still bleeding softly. There was no need to worry; they would heal too. And they would become thin white scars, scars that Sherlock could run his fingers over and smile at.

There was a knock on the door and Sherlock jumped.

‘ _Sherlock? You’ve been in there a while._ ’

John. John Watson. Dear, Dr Watson, the bravest man Sherlock had ever met. And loyal, so loyal. Interesting, enigmatic, funny, charming, and good company.

He couldn’t know about this; about the cutting. He’d stop it. Sherlock couldn’t stop it. It was all he had. Drugs had been taken away, police cases barely kept him sane, and the odd cigarette helped with his functioning. But the cutting had to stay. Please, please, let the cutting stay.

‘ _Sherlock?_ ’

Demanding now. Worried.

‘Er, just washing my hair,’ Sherlock said. What a stupid, stupid answer. An hour in the shower to wash your hair?

‘ _Uh, okay_.’

Didn’t believe Sherlock but was willing to play along.

Footsteps, receding, and Sherlock sighed. He stood and removed most of his clothing, wrapping himself in his silk dressing gown. He made sure to wet his hair before turning the shower off.

A wash cloth stained in blood cleaned the floor and Sherlock stuffed it, and the razor blade, under the sink. He smiled, knowing they’d never be found, and headed out.

John was typing at his laptop, probably updating his blog. Sherlock ignored him and dropped onto the couch, enjoying the little throbs of pain that speared through his arm.

No boredom now. Just lying down, staring at the ceiling, enjoying the pain.

He was aware of John getting up but didn’t open his eyes. Now was the time to enjoy the pain and burning. Now was the time to revel in what he could control; the slicing, the blood, the welts, the healing, the scars... all of it, wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. And it would never go, never leave him. It was Sherlock’s; the razor blade and the pain.

John cleared his throat. Oh, he was back, then. Sherlock didn’t move. Another clearing of the throat. Still Sherlock didn’t move. And then something hit him in the face. Sherlock caught the smell of mould, water, chemicals and... blood.

Sherlock shifted and grabbed what had been thrown at him. Opening his eyes, he saw the bloody wash cloth he used to wipe blood from the bathroom floor.

Turning, he saw John standing across from him, razor blade in one hand.

‘Sherlock...’ he said slowly, carefully. ‘We need to talk.’

****


End file.
